The A Team
by MissButterflyChick
Summary: Alfred is entranced by the beautiful man in the alley, who isn't what he seems to be and is, infact, a man plagued by life-crushing problems. Based on the A team by Ed Sheeran. I Do Not own the A Team or Hetalia. Many phrases within this are lyrics. To find which ones, I'd suggest listening to the song. NOT A SONG FIC. Rated for mentions of prostitution.


Alfred wasn't a stalker; he just noticed things. Such as the beautiful man that stood in the alley behind his favorite bar. He couldn't help the sudden attraction for this man. He just wanted to know about him; that's all. It's not like he followed him or anything. The man was there every day and always looked either scared or excited, or maybe nervous in both the good and bad ways. The man had beautiful blonde hair, much more gold than white, small nose that curved up slightly at the end in an adorable way, and the biggest eyebrows Alfred had ever seen. He decided it made the man look more dashing and sophisticated than anything else; they were so expressive too. But after that, it was notable that his lips were pale and quite chapped, though Alfred had expected them to be full and a beautiful pink color. It was almost like they were white… Come to think of it, his whole face was pale. More so than he had been last time he had seen him.

One night Alfred was sitting in his favorite stool closest to the back door. At this point it was almost closing time and the bar was uncharacteristically quiet. It was also the first time he heard the beautiful alley man's voice.

"Please, I need it."

"You ain't got enough."

"Please, I'll do whatever you want!"

"Then give me money!"

"Look, it's this or rent…please, I'll make you feel good…"

"I don't accept that kind of payment."

"Fine. Here."

The first thing that registered to Alfred was the man's accent. He never used to believe English accents were all that attractive, but God, he did now. It was the first time he had heard the man speak. But then, whatever it is he was trying to buy…he spent his rent money on it, apparently. Alfred wondered what it was he wanted from the strange man, and what the hell he meant about "feel good." Whatever it was, it gave Alfred a bad feeling within his very being.

"I see you staring at him, you know," said a low voice next to him. It came from a blonde man on the neighboring barstool. His accent was French, and he was holding a half-empty glass of wine, staring at the back door, where Alfred's eyes had been almost welded. He turned towards the Frenchman and asked, "Him?" With a tight and tired smile, the man answered, "So you are not one of his 'clients' then. You come in every night and stare where you know he is standing, do you not even know his name?" Alfred's eyes widened, hopeful. "You know his name, then? What is it?" he asked excitedly. "Why do you want to know?" the Frenchman's look darkened. This took Alfred aback. Why did he want to know? He had been so entranced with the man it never occurred to him why that was or how strange it was. "I don't know," he answered honestly. The other man relaxed slightly. "As long as you don't hurt him…" he said quietly, and continued at a regular volume with "His name is Arthur. I went to school with him. We were friends a long time ago." He took a deep drink from his glass. "I suppose I don't know him anymore. I doubt anyone does. He's in the A team now."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alfred asked, wondering at all the things this man was telling him, reveling at the knowledge of the beautiful man's name, and baffled at that last remark. "It means he's an addict. In high school he fell in with a bad crowd, and it started with piercings, green hair and general teen rebellion, but eventually…well, he's been this way since eighteen. I don't know what he's on, but he's proven he's willing to do anything to get it." "He's what?" said Alfred, shocked, but somehow, this explanation did answer some unspoken questions. Alfred had noticed that lately his face seemed more sunken each day, like he was wasting away. "If that's true, then why hasn't anyone helped him? Why haven't you, you were his friend?" The man sighed. "You think I didn't try? He hates me in the first place, won't listen to what I say, he just won't stop. It's killing him and he knows it. He'd go mad for a couple grams. He can't stop. I can't try anymore. For awhile, I'd come and buy his time, just to talk to him, but he just used the money to buy more drugs….Ugh, the worst things in life come free to us… I don't know why I'm telling you this, I'm sorry-" "No," Alfred interrupted, "I wanted to know, I just- wait, what did you mean about 'bought his time'?" The Frenchman put his head in his hands before responding, "He has become a man of the evening, that's why I wondered if you were one of his 'clients'." He sighed again, then finished his wine with one last gulp. "It was nice to have met you, but I must go now. Adieu." Alfred waved him goodbye.

"I've gotta do something." Alfred thought to himself. "He needs a hero. This Arthur, my angel, has fallen so far. He's being crushed just under the upper-hand of his addiction. But what can I do?" He resolved to sleep on it, but decided he had to do something, and soon.

As months went by, Alfred was no closer to helping his angel. He had seen the Frenchman from the bar numerous times since then, but hadn't talked to him. Eventually winter hit and it was getting cold. Alfred noticed some new things about Arthur. He still stood in the alley, regardless of the cold, sometimes leaving with strange men… But now he noticed that Arthur's appearance had been altering more. He was more pale, even thinner, and was dressed for too lightly to protect him against the cold weather. Instead of a Winter coat, he wore a thin beige rain coat. His gloves were even ripped. And he had started coughing a lot. Alfred was afraid Arthur was getting sick.

What he didn't know is that Arthur had lost his apartment and had been living on the streets; in that very alley way, actually. His only comfort from the hell he had put himself in was to pull out his pipe and fly to another land. His clients had stopped calling because he was no longer as handsome as he had been, and he looked sick. Now he was withdrawing. Badly. And as the snow started to fall he knew if he fell asleep he might not wake up again. He secretly wished he wouldn't. All he could do was to hope to wake to a better life. It was so cold as he slept, that the snow started to cover him in white.

This is what Alfred saw when he had finally resolved to talk to him. Arthur's body was slumped over next to a dumpster and was covered in snow. He would not wake when Alfred shook him. All he could do was call 911 and hope for the best.


End file.
